Finally he said, “Tom, where’s my money?”

The guy twisted his head sideways. His skin looked clammy. His eyes were all pupil. He said, “I swear to God. It was in there.”

Jack shook his head. Leveled the pistol just in case. Then he lifted his right foot, the heel of the dress shoe angled down.

DON’T BE AFRAID, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, oh God, what’s he doing, why is he, his leg, why is he, oh God, is he, he can’t, oh God, don’t be afraid, don’tbeafraid, dontbeafraid,dontbea –

The man slammed his foot down, and Tom’s world exploded. “We put it in the crawl space, we put it in the crawl space, I swear to Christ, we put it right there!” Screaming the words to fight the agony.

Jack lifted his foot again, and Tom sucked in a deep breath.

He yanked against the shoe holding him in place, saw the finger tighten on the trigger of the gun, forced himself to stop.

The second time he noticed the sound, just as bad as the pain, a meaty horror with a slick-sick backslide as his knuckles ground concrete. A crack, like breaking a twig, and his little finger was twisted all the way over. He looked at it and felt something heave in him, fought not to vomit, the pain, the pain, the burning shrieking jagged-glass ragged-edged pain.

“Where is it?”

“We put it in the crawl space!”

The third stomp caught the edge of his wedding ring, the stainless steel band they’d picked out at a jeweler’s off Michigan Avenue, caught it and deflected most of the force, but it was enough, enough, more than enough. Tom stared and fought against the black spots in his vision, thinking of his ring, his ring, his wife, his sweet ring and wife, Jesus, Anna, she would be home soon.

“I swear to fucking Christ,” screaming, bellowing, eyes bugging, “we found the money in his kitchen, in the flour and the sugar and we put it in a duffel bag and took it down here, just my wife and me, and we haven’t fucking moved it, I swear, I fucking swear. I don’t know where it is, no matter how much you hurt me, I fucking do not know, because we put it in the crawl space.”

The man raised his foot again. Narrowed his eyes and paused. He was looking down, and Tom put it all in his eyes how he’d never been more sincere in his life, never. To make Jack believe. To keep that foot from coming down again. Heartbeats lasted decades; just the cool of the concrete, and the smell of blood and dust and bleach, and the inferno that was his hand.

Then Jack lowered his foot. Slowly. He took his other off Tom’s arm, and dropped to a squat. Held the gun loose and casual, and Tom considered going for it, but the mere thought of moving his fingers made him almost vomit. Jack stared, hard features hollowed by the overhead light, eyes more suggestions than anatomy. Finally he said, “Huh,” and stood up, stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair.

Free to move, Tom rolled over on his side, cradled his left hand in his right, holding it gently, like a limb that had fallen asleep, only instead of pins and needles, it was spikes and sawblades. His fingers were bloody and torn, savaged by the concrete. The little one was clearly broken. There was a wicked gash in the index finger. They were red and swollen as sausages.

They’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Fingers heal. You put them on ice, you bind them, you go to the hospital. But first you have to get out of this.

Slowly, trying to use only his stomach muscles, Tom sat up. He was dizzy, and his head ached hollowly. “I swear,” he said. “I swear, we put the money down here. I don’t have any idea where it is.”

Jack nodded slowly. “You know what? I believe you. You don’t know where it is.” He squatted down beside Tom. “But you know what else? I bet Anna does.”

Before Tom could process what that meant, Jack’s gun hand lashed out, and everything went away.

THROBBING.

His hand hurt furiously, in steady pulses tied to his heart. His head too. As he grasped at the straws of consciousness, his first thought was that he hadn’t had a hangover this bad in a long time. Had he fallen asleep on the-

It all came back. Tom’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, but a slap of pain thrust him back. Slow. Take it slow. He was in a chair. A La-Z-Boy. Will’s apartment, their downstairs unit. He was sitting with his hand propped up on the arm. Alone. Where was Jack?

And on the heels of that, where, oh God, where was Anna?

The fantasy played itself out in a fraction of a breath, a flickering horror show: Anna’s arm extended, her mouth wide, head thrown back, Jack raising that foot. Another: Jack throwing her to the ground, unbuckling his pants, his wife screaming for help, while Tom lay unconscious in the chair…

He sat up again. The pain came in a white wave, and he made himself ride it, eyes closed, teeth clenched. The pain didn’t matter. If she was here, he had to help her, had to get to her. Even if she wasn’t, she would be soon.

A sound came from down the hall. The refrigerator door opening. Jack was in the kitchen. He must have felt safe with Tom unconscious, left him here. Just lucky timing. Tom stood, holding his left arm in his right. The world wobbled, then slowly steadied. Now what?

He might be able to make it out the front door, but what if Anna came home before he could get the cops here? He could try her cell phone, but what if she was on the El, or the battery was dead?

No. He couldn’t leave until he knew they were both safe. So what then? The phone was no good; the extension was in the kitchen. His cell was in his bag, but he didn’t see it. The room was spare, just the chair, an entertainment center, a TV, a lamp. His eyes roamed the fireplace, the shelves, the hallway. His toolbox. He’d left it in the hallway after looking for the drugs.

He didn’t let himself think. Just ordered his feet to move. One step. Two. Heart racing, Tom bent down by the orange plastic toolbox. The latches were unfastened. Thank God he’d been in a hurry the other day. He reached for it, automatically using his closer hand, his left. The broken pinkie grazed the lid. Stars burst behind his eyes. He wanted to gasp, to howl, to scream curses and kick the wall. He held his breath and didn’t make a sound.

Don’t stop, you don’t have time, go, go, be strong. Teeth grinding, he forced his right hand into motion. Opened the lid gently. Inside the top tray lay a collection of small tools: needle-nose pliers and a current detector and a miniature flashlight and a handful of misfit screws. And a four-inch Buck knife. Tom picked it up with two fingers. He’d originally had the hammer in mind, but this was better, faster and concealable. Carefully, he lowered the lid of the toolbox.

He heard a noise from down the hall and jerked upright. It took a minute to process the familiar pop and hiss. Jack had gone to grab a beer, like this was no big deal. The rush of anger that brought was amazing, hundred-proof hate at the sheer arrogance. The guy had clearly written Tom off as nothing.

Lips twisted, Tom took the few steps back to the chair. He opened the knife and slid it gingerly into his front right pocket. Then he sat, closed his eyes, and waited. He might be down, but he wasn’t nothing.

JACK TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of Old Style. The cold beer slid easy down his throat. He glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly six. The woman would be home soon. Almost done.

He walked down the hall. Tom Reed was still in the chair. His position was a little different, though, and his breathing didn’t have the regularity that came with unconsciousness. His left hand burned red, angry flesh and drying blood. “You awake?”

The guy didn’t answer, but his eyelids twitched. “Yeah, you’re awake.” Jack stepped past him, to the front window. Glanced out at the quiet block. A pretty little street. Vintage graystones and two-flats, a couple of bungalows stuck in between. Plenty of trees, but still in the middle of things, restaurants and bars an easy stroll. The people walking dogs smiled at each other, stopped to chat. “Lemme ask you, what does a place like this run?”